Space
by Lavender Flame
Summary: Portia let Cinna in her room three times during senior year. Indirect sequel to "Room".


**Author's Note: Another drabble(-ish) for my OTP, as an indirect sequel to "Room". I liked the 'verse and decided I wanted to write another drabble in it.**

* * *

Portia'd always had a natural sense of needing her own personal space. Somewhere her own she could always run to, just to be alone with her thoughts, and feel at peace. So her room was a little bit strange, a little bit like her.

The floor was completely covered by a rug of soft fake grass, and opposite it on the ceiling, temporary wallpaper showing a sunny sky with a few wispy clouds that she'd accentuated with cotton balls. The walls were green, which was why she'd picked the room, but they were mostly covered in 3-D fake trees made of butcher paper, taped up from the back, including on the door. The exception was the exterior wall, which was all glass, common in the Capitol. Her bed had a leaf-pattern sheet and blanket and pillowcase on her one main pillow, the rest being throw pillows that looked almost disturbingly like rocks, stuffed animals perched on them—eventually. Next to the bed was a dark wood nightstand with a gray alarm clock in the shape of a bird on top of it, across from it a matching desk and chair, and near that a matching dresser with a large mirror hanging over it.

And no one else was "allowed" in the room. Her door was always closed, and locked if she was in it. When she was with Cinna, they were in his room, which was where she slept almost every night. He didn't question her usually not letting anyone in. Once in a blue moon, he'd get in a short conversation while they both stood in the doorway.

And three times, he was let in.

**. . . . .**

The first time, it was Portia's birthday, and Cinna was in a bit of a panic, because he had five classes that day, Portia refused to say anything she wanted for her birthday, and she also refused to go out to dinner for her birthday.

He couldn't actually see her until after five o'clock.

He'd just gotten home, so after dropping by his own room, he knocked on her door. It opened after a few long seconds.

"Well, don't you look beautiful for someone who won't go out with me tonight," he said.

She flushed. "I didn't want you making a big fuss over today."

"It's my job to fuss over you, angel, and I love doing it, because I love you." He kissed her, still keeping his hands holding bags and such behind his back, out of her view. "Happy birthday."

"Thank you," she said, and then, "Come in."

He blinked. "In—in here?"

She paused, and then nodded.

"Why?"

"You said you'd do anything I wanted for my birthday," she said, almost as if it were a challenge.

He slowly, hesitantly, took a step just past the doorway. She shut the door behind him.

"We have… flowers—" he pulled out a bouquet in one of those solid vases that adhered right to the flower stems and any surface you placed it on, handing her things as he named them "—card—" a card he'd drawn himself, in a nice envelope "—cake, with triple the chocolate and triple the risk for diabetes—" a plastic container with a miniature cake, with the frosting spelling _Happy Birthday, Portia, _and forks, a box of candles, and a lighter "—balloon—" a foil balloon that also read _Happy Birthday_ "—and very well-wrapped gift, if I do say so myself—" a box wrapped with maroon paper and topped with a red ribbon.

"You're absolutely ridiculous," she said, trying to sort things out, setting the flowers and balloon on the dresser.

"I wouldn't call it ridiculous."

"I told you not to fuss! I even fed you the wrong date for my birthday for a while, which obviously didn't work."

"Open your damn present."

"Okay," she relented, ripping off the paper and opening the box. Inside were seven small stuffed animals—an elephant, a monkey, a giraffe, a zebra, a bear, a tiger, and a koala.

"I thought they fit your… _theme, _nicely," he said. "I know it's silly."

She kissed his cheek. "They're adorable; thank you." She set all of them on the rock pillows on her bed, and opened the card, read it, again kissed his cheek, and set it propped up on her desk.

Cinna opened the cake container on the dresser, and placed eleven candles around the edges of the letters. "I figure we can do half."

"Hmm," she smiled, while he lit the candles.

"Make your wish," he whispered in her ear, looping an arm around her, and after a second, she blew out the candles. He kissed her shoulder. "Happy birthday, angel."

"You said that." Her gaze went to the floor, shyly.

"I think it deserves to be said again. Now, about that getting diabetes thing—" He handed her a fork.

"Sounds good." She leant up and kissed him. "Thank you," she started, "For all… this."

"You're welcome," he said, almost exasperated. "Now, eat your damn cake."

"Gladly."

**. . . . .**

The second time was because Portia—as usual, but this time to a somewhat higher degree—was stressed. She muttered to herself under her breath, eyebrows knit together as she looked down with bloodshot eyes ringed with dark circles. She was dressed in a nightgown and jacket, hair in another sloppy ponytail, pulled away from her forehead, where the stress lines were more clear than usual, the color drained from her face.

She was so deep in thought that she jumped when Cinna knocked on the door. Then she stood and opened it. "Hi," she said.

He examined her state and frowned. "What's wrong, angel?" he asked gently.

"Nothing," she lied quickly, taking an automatic step back, and, realizing that it wasn't going to work, sighed, "Just… semester finals," although she was feeling more anxious in general.

"Hmm." He shifted forward a bit, but then Portia went to shut the door behind him, and, surprised, he had to take a full step in. He tucked a few loose strands of hair back behind her ear, his hand running down her back and finally joining his other to circle her waist. "Anything I can do?"

She shook her head, arms going around his neck, slightly leaning against him.

"I try to not worry about finals. Since you're going to do better than me in all of them anyway."

She nudged him with her foot. "Hardly." She rolled her eyes at the idea.

"They're all about actual execution. That's your thing."

"If I have any good enough ideas to use. Which is _your_ thing. And I'm not _that_ good in execution."

"Only according to you, angel." He kissed her forehead.

"I don't test well. Not under pressure."

"They don't mean that much."

"According to _you_," she echoed again.

He kissed her just to shut her up. "Well, your pile system does make the studying look bad," he said, letting go of her and gesturing to the desk, which looked like a disaster area, covered with papers, notebooks, binders, books, fabrics, thread, sketchpads, pencils, pens, erasers, white-out containers, rulers, highlighters, scissors, glue, beads, buttons, needles.

She shrugged, running her hands down to each clasp one of his, interlacing their fingers and moving both of their hands back up between them.

"So, why am I allowed in today?"

She shrugged again. "Because I'm tired," she whispered finally.

"Mm," he echoed. "It's late. Come to bed, then. Or stay in here; I have to get up early and you don't, so, I wouldn't want to wake you."

She considered for a second. "I'll stay here. I might get up and study again, anyway."

"All right." He squeezed her hands, then let go, and scooped her up into his arms. She squealed in surprise and squirmed on instinct, but he playfully "dropped" her on the bed, pulled the covers out from under her and then tucked them back over her.

She pouted at him.

"Go to sleep," he said, kissing her forehead, her nose, her lips, all with a small smile. He brushed her hair away from her face one last time.

"Fine."

"_Sleep,_" he repeated, while she settled into the covers, and he went to shut the lights, closing the door behind him.

**. . . . .**

The third time, it was their last day in the house. They had all just recently graduated, and now they were on their own, and free to live as far away from the campus as they pleased. Cinna and Portia had decided to live together, but there was still a sense of nostalgia and sentimentality in the air.

He, for the last time, knocked on her door.

She opened it after a second. "Hi," she said quietly.

"Hey." He tilted her head up briefly and kissed her lightly. "How's the last day going?"

"Okay. It's just… a lot of changes. I mean—graduating, and moving, and… everything. I —I don't know. How about you?"

"All right." He looked at her. "Are you really… okay? With all the changes?"

"Yeah. I'm… I'm good." She took in a breath. "Do you want to—you should—come in." She stepped back from the door, and he stepped forward. She closed it behind him.

"The place looks so empty," he observed.

"It does." She shifted nervously.

"Well, you've clearly done a much better job of last-minute packing than I have."

"It's not really that good." Her eyes flicked to the floor.

"I'm sure it is." He smiled at her, and twirled a loose section of her hair around his hand, then trailed it down her cheek, her neck, to her shoulder, let it rest there.

She sighed. "I almost don't want to leave. School or here."

"I know," he said softly, and kissed her forehead.

"Life as we know it is ending."

"You make it sound very dramatic," he teased.

She shrugged, as much as she could, and he removed his hand. She rested her head on his chest, tucked under his chin, faintly feeling his warmth, breathing, heartbeat; he wrapped his arms around her and pulled her closer, and she did the same. He kissed the top of her head.

"What do you think happens next?" she whispered.

"I don't know, angel. We get settled into our new place, we get jobs… I don't know."

"Hmm."

He rubbed her back gently until she turned in his arms, letting go of him, to look out the window. "I'll miss the view," she said.

"There are some nice windows at our new apartment."

"I guess."

"You very specifically looked at all the windows."

"It'll just be different."

"I know." He shifted to kiss her shoulder.

"… Our apartment's kind of high up, isn't it?"

"Seventh story, yes." He paused. "You seem to have a lot of reservations about it now."

She sighed again. "Don't listen to me. I'm just overthinking out loud."

He intertwined their hands in front of them. "I want to listen to you. It might not be too late to ask for the same apartment version on a lower story."

"No, it's fine. I just—it's fine."

"Okay," he said, still seeming concerned. "There's no way to fall out of it. And the building is very stable."

"I know… I know."

"I assume you want the view room?"

"If you don't."

"Your pick."

"I'll take it, then," she whispered.

"Good." He changed the subject. "And how are the job applications going?"

"All right. Right now I'm learning towards that paid internship. Any news on your art class TA application?"

"I got a confirmation e-mail that they got it, but, that's it."

"Well, confirmation is good."

"Yes, it is," he agreed. He kissed her cheek and then let go of her. She turned to face him. "I need to go check that all of the boxes stayed closed, speaking of confirming things. I'll meet you out front."

"Okay."

He kissed her one more time before heading out. "Love you," he said.

"I love you, too," she smiled, and then he was out the door for the last time.


End file.
